


Morning Always Comes

by townshend



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 18:22:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/townshend/pseuds/townshend





	Morning Always Comes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Person](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Person/gifts).



With his leg the way it was, Douglas wasn't going to be driving back from Silent Hill to Portland. The pain must have been bad, but he was a good sport, grimacing an attempt at a smile at Heather's tasteless joke and letting her run off to find a wheelchair when it became apparent she wasn't going to be able to balance his weight on her shoulder to carry him out. 

"Leave me," he said, half-joking.

"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed, hands on her hips.

Heather found a wheelchair near the exit to a nearby ride - the wheels squeaked a little, but it worked well enough, and she wheeled it back to Douglas and helped him in. On his directions, they found a way out of Lakeside that didn't involve going through the Borley Haunted Mansion. Once was enough for a lifetime (or three).

By the time they'd circled around Nathan Avenue and were approaching Jack's Inn, where Douglas' old beat-up truck was parked, the sky was beginning to lighten. Somewhere behind the mountains, the sun was coming up. Heather wanted it to be a shining light, a beacon of hope, but for some reason, the thought of it just felt exhausting.

The town was still deserted. Heather knew her ordeal was all over, but there was a gnawing feeling of anxiety in her stomach, and worse, now that she was removed from the terror and there wasn't an active threat to her life, the reality of the horror she'd experienced was beginning to wash over her and settle in, sculpting out a seat in her chest, curling up there, making itself a home.

She tried to ignore it.

"I don't think we can get you into a hospital here," she said, and her head conjured up images of Alchemilla - twisting hallways and terrifying doctors, an overwhelming crush of pain, constant sorrow, and misery. Her fingers on the steering wheel tightened.

Douglas was seated in the passenger's seat with his leg stretched out as far as he could, the wheelchair folded up and tucked away in the back of the truck.

"I'll be okay," he insisted, shaking his head. "Right now, I just want to get as far away from this place as possible."

She laughed, a short, bitter burst that she quickly stiffled. "Yeah. Okay. Back to Portland then. Okay?"

She started the car, twisting the keys in the ignition. The engine rattled, shuddered, and then finally turned over, coming to life.

"Take Nathan back the way we came and watch for signs for the highway," Douglas muttered. "Going east. Then I-5 to Bangor and we'll be on that for a while all the way to Portland."

The drive home was uneventful. Douglas stared out the window until they reached Bangor - Heather offered to stop somewhere and get a coffee, but he shook his head no. She continued down the highway, each road sign showing the number of miles left to Portland looking more and more exciting. Heather wasn't technically a licensed driver, but there weren't many other people on the road, and she knew the basics. After what she'd just gone through in Silent Hill, she felt like she could do anything. She hoped that feeling would last long enough to get her home.

The last few miles were exhausting. Heather turned the radio up to keep herself awake, but felt annoyed by the AM DJ's antics. When they finally pulled in to her apartment building, Heather clumsily parked, turned the car off, and let out a sigh, resting her head back against the back of the seat.

"We should call you an ambulance or something," she said, finally, picking her head back up and looking towards Doulas.

"No need," he answered. He was looking down at his leg, then gently pressing a hand against it. Heather tilted her head, confused. He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "There's no pain. It's healed."

"Healed?" she echoed, frowning. "How is that possible? Didn't you say it was broken?"

"Seen a lot of impossible things these past few days," he muttered, still watching Heather carefully. She opened her mouth to rebut, but then closed it slowly, thinking. Was he implying she had done that somehow? No way. She hadn't done anything consciously; she didn't even know the first thing about how to access Alessa's powers.

"We should go inside," Douglas said gently, breaking Heather out of her thoughts. "We need to call someone," he swallowed, "about your father."

There was still no time for rest. The next few hours were busy and relentlessly horrible, but Douglas stayed by her side the whole time. An ambulance and paramedics had come, and then a coroner, and police. They'd taken Harry's body away, and police had asked question after question after question about the murder. At one point, somehow had asked Heather if she needed a referral to a therapist, and she quickly declined.

"Do you have anybody you can stay with?" they asked. "A friend, or a relative?"

Heather hesitated - she couldn't stay in her own apartment, to try to feel close to her dad, at least in some way? - and Douglas quickly cut in.

"She can stay with me."

"We'll need an address," the officer said, and Douglas began scribbling one down. "You should pack a bag. Let us know if you find anything out of place."

Numbly, she packed. Heather had no idea how many days to plan for, but she took as much as she could get in her gym bag, grabbing for the stashed away cache of money she had saved in her sock drawer - the emergency fund her dad had insisted on - should anything ever go wrong. She was glad to have it, now.

\----------

Douglas' address turned out to be another run-down motel.

"It's not bad," Douglas promised her.

"As long as it has a bed, right now, I'm happy." Heather stared at the place, unfeeling, too emotionally overloaded to be able to really let much of anything affect her.

Thankfully, Heather was able to get her own room. The clerk at the front desk handed her a key, and there was an awkward moment where she didn't know what name to write on the registry card, finally scribbling down "Cheryl Mason". It felt strange to write.

When she got into the room with the door shut and locked behind her, she let out a burst of air - a long sigh that didn't even begin to expel the pressure still locked inside her.

The bed and the shower seemed to be calling to her equally loudly. Heather turned to the bed, hesitated, and then decided to get a quick shower first.

When her dampened head finally hit the pillow, Heather was so overwhelmed by exhaustion that she blacked out before she even had time to be too afraid of nightmares to sleep.

\----------

After what she'd just been through, maybe nothing her head could conjure up could really be nightmarish to her anymore. It was more of a dream than a nightmare, really.

She was standing in the entryway of the library her dad had always taken her to when she was young. He had wanted to establish a love of reading in her, and she'd taken to it heartily as a kid. She could still remember his hesitation as she'd picked out _Alice in Wonderland_ and _The Lost World_ \- she hadn't known it then, at least not consciously, but they were two of Alessa's favorites.

The library was eerily quiet. She crept past the checkout counters, noting that the computers were all turned off. As she began to pass the children's section, though, she heard a calm, steady voice.

"--and the fox, crafty as can be, turned to the turtle and said--"

But the voice suddenly stopped as Heather rounded the corner, and she gasped at what she saw.

Sitting in the same chair from their living room (thankfully, without the blood) was her father, holding a picture book. He was reading a story to two girls - Heather recognized them instantly as Cheryl and Alessa. But Harry's voice had stopped, and all three pairs of eyes were expectantly on her. Heather's heart hammered in her chest.

"Heather." Harry smiled, shutting the book. "I'm glad you're here."

"Dad," Heather choked, taking a shaky step forward. She grasped the edge of a bookshelf to steady herself, then took another three steps into the tiny clearing, coming to stand next to Cheryl, who smiled up at her appreciatively. "I'm so--"

He quickly held up his hand, cutting her off. "There's no need to apologize. It was like I was living on borrowed time, anyway..." He trailed off, eyes unfocused, before licking his lips carefully and putting eyes back on her, certain. "I knew my purpose, the reason I was alive - it was to take care of you. To give you a happy life, a good childhood... it was what you deserved. All of you."

Heather was quiet, feeling Cheryl and Alessa's eyes on her again. "I think you did that," she whispered. But it wasn't fair. It wasn't enough. She was only seventeen. She still needed him. She was always going to need him!

"You don't have to go," she said, suddenly. "I can keep you. Right?" She looked to Alessa, her heart pounding in her chest. "I... we've done it before. I can make you come back."

"No," Harry murmured, quietly. "I can't...do that for you. I have things to do. I'm somewhere else now, taking care of them. I'm watching over you, just...in a different way." He looked pained - Heather wasn't sure if it was because he was rejecting her proposal or if he was remembering what had happened to Lisa.

Alessa's power had been unfocused and unmatured then. Things could be different now! But Harry was right - she couldn't take him away from where he was, wherever that may be - Cheryl needed him. They were both a part of her, but...they were somewhere else, too? Stuck in some kind of afterlife?

Trying to sort it all out was making her head pound.

"It's okay, dad," Heather said, letting out a breath. She smiled just a little, trying to ignore the tears building in her eyes. This was goodbye. "I love you."

Harry smiled back, looking relieved. "I love you too, Heather," he said. "Don't forget that."

The scene before her faded into darkness, like a light slowly going out. Without thinking, she reached up to her breast pocket and switched on the flashlight that had been her only source of light during the nightmare she'd just been through. It didn't make any sense why she had it. She was almost sure she hadn't had it with her a moment ago.

She was standing in a long, dark hallway - the walls were covered with a light colored wallpaper that was peeling off in chunks, showing the wood beneath. The poor range of her light didn't show her much, but she could see the hallway seemed to stretch on for a while.

Heather worried the bottom of her lip - in this kind of situation, she felt naked without a weapon. It was ridiculous. She was a teenage girl, not some war-hardened soldier. She shouldn't have to feel this vulnerable without something to defend her. She searched each pocket hastily, finding only the small pocket knife her dad had given her for self-protection long ago. It would have to be good enough. Hopefully, she wouldn't need it.

Slowly, she started down the hall, boots squishing into damp carpet. As she moved, she could hear quiet voices slowly growing louder. They were...singing?

The hall seemed to widen as she reached the end, and the voices grew louder. There was a set of wide, wooden double doors, and golden light was seeping in through the cracks around and between. Heather hesitated, but ultimately reached out, opening one of the doors and stepping inside.

She was standing in the same chapel she'd confronted Claudia in only hours ago - but with this much golden light coming in through the stained glass windows and the pews full of people, the room looked completely different than it had before. It looked bright and welcoming, and Heather stood there a moment, dazed.

None of the many people in the pews seemed to notice her arrival. Everyone ignored her completely. Instead, their eyes were all on the front of the room. They'd just finished the last note of the hymn, and the sound hung in the air, echoing from the rafters high above their heads. It was beautiful. Heather hated herself for thinking it, but it was true.

And then, the man at the front of the room spoke. The sound of his voice drew Heather's attention immediately.

"And thus God spoke to Her people, 'Fear not, for I come to deliver the people from pain and anguish; to bear life and end suffering; to bring the promise of Paradise and give them everlasting hope'."

It was Vincent's voice.

"Amen," the congregation replied, solemnly.

"Vincent?" Heather asked, quietly.

"With these words, God has promised us all deliverance from the tortures of this life, assuring us all that we will prosper and grow under Her light. We have been guaranteed sanctuary and peace, because God has wished it for us. We thank God for these gifts, and beg Her to forgive us our sins, the things we do that make us unworthy of God's love."

It seemed Vincent hadn't noticed Heather, either.

"By God's blessings, we are saved," the congregation answered. Heather crept forward along the main path, slowly approaching the altar. Vincent stood there, reading from a worn, open book, looking just as Heather had last seen him - minus, she reminded herself, the blood and gaping knife wound.

That was something she'd rather forget.

"Let us pray." Vincent held out his hands, and the people in the pews moved simultaneously, falling from the pews to their knees, kneeling, their hands folding together, eyes closing. Vincent's eyes stayed open, eyeing his congregation appreciatively. "God," he began, "bless this day, and bless the people here gathered in Your name." He was quiet for a long moment - it seemed that this moment was for people to say their own prayers - Heather could see the lips of the people kneeling moving, silently, saying quiet prayers. She couldn't hear any of them.

It occurred to her that some of the people were probably praying to her. The thought made her queasy, and she quickly turned her eyes back to Vincent.

She was startled to see he was looking right back at her.

"Heather." He smiled. "Are you here to receive my blessing?"

The people kneeling acted as if they could not hear him at all. Heather shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, her heart hammering in her chest.

"You died," she said, as if that made any sense to say to someone in a dream. Vincent looked like he might laugh, and she felt instantly foolish.

"So I did," he agreed. "Believe me, that wasn't a part of the plan."

"The Seal didn't work." She crossed arms over her chest. He winced just a little at the memory. Heather couldn't tell if it was genuine or if he was over-acting.

"Right. That was...unanticipated." He ran a hand through his hair. "But that's not what you're here to talk about."

"It's not?" She watched him carefully. "You know why I'm here?"

He waved a hand, closing his eyes for a moment, a smile teasing the corners of his lips. "Not exactly. I'm not psychic, y'know. Call it intuition. You're here for a reason. You wouldn't be seeing me otherwise."

Heather frowned. "Who are these people?" she asked, turning towards the silent congregation, still deep in prayer.

"They're people who have died - members of the church." He slowly stepped down from the altar, coming to stand beside her. "True believers."

"They're acting like I'm not even here."

Vincent shrugged. "There's no need for them to be able to see you. So they don't."

"Is this really the afterlife?" Heather asked, wrinkling her nose. "Everlasting sermons and prayers?"

He laughed. "I hope not. To tell you the truth, I never really believed there was anything after death." He stared out over the chapel, teeth set. "I'm not exactly keen to leave the world behind."

Heather looked down at her boots. Vincent shouldn't have died. Heather should have seen Claudia coming at him with the knife. She should have been able to stop Claudia from killing one more person - but she'd just stood there and watched. She felt an overwhelming sense of anger, frustration, and guilt - if she had been able to save Vincent, things would be a lot different now, wouldn't they?

She tried to imagine it.

She wouldn't be alone. Douglas understood the monsters and the hell she'd been through, but when she tried to talk about the religion, God, and her abilities, he'd acted like it was crazy. Vincent had been a jerk about the monsters with his little "joke", sure, but he understood that stuff better than she did.

But it was ridiculous to expect that Vincent would have stuck around her if she'd managed to save him. He'd have his own things to do. He'd have wanted to stay in Silent Hill, where he already had a name for himself, wouldn't he? He wouldn't have hung around her.

"You could come with me," she said, looking up at him. Her dad had just told her _he_ couldn't come with her - but Vincent didn't have anything going for him here. Could she really keep him? Did she really have the ability to do that? Healing someone's broken leg was a lot different than keeping an entire person in existance, twenty-four-seven. Alessa had been able to do it until Lisa had found out, but Heather wasn't sure if her powers would be better or worse than Alessa's. On the plus side, she had better focus, since she wasn't dealing with constant pain and suffering. But reversely, Heather couldn't ignore that she _wasn't_ Alessa, and she didn't really know what she was doing. Could she really risk it?

She had to try. And surely Vincent knew what he was getting himself in to, if he agreed.

He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "Come with you?" he asked. "Me? You flatter me."

She frowned, a hand going on her hip. "Never mind."

"Hey, don't get so mad." He grinned, showing off his teeth. "You'll do what you think is right. As for me... well, for the moment, I have a service to finish." He turned, taking the few steps back up to the altar, going to stand behind where he had his book laid out. "See you, Heather."

As Heather turned to leave the chapel, Vincent called on the attention of the people praying, leading them into reading of some kind of scripture. Heather reached the double doors and laid a hand on the knob, pausing and glancing back towards Vincent behind her shoulder.

Maybe this could work. Maybe.

\----------

When Heather woke up, she had no idea how long she'd been asleep. Blearily, she blinked, still dazed from the dream, trying to see the illuminated numbers on the tiny motel alarm clock.

It was almost eight PM.

Heather reached for the lamp on the bedside table when she felt something shift on the bed beside her.

Tossing, Heather threw herself from the bed, letting out a choked cry, grabbing for the pocket knife on the side table and brandishing it. "Who-- who's there?!" she cried, trying to will her eyes to better adjust to the dark. "Stay back!"

There was a low chuckle from the other side of the bed. Heather's heart flew up in her chest. "Watch where you're waving that thing," the voice warned. "I'm sure I'd hate to be on the receiving end."

Heather let out a shuddering breath - she recognized that voice. "V-Vincent?" she asked, quietly.

"In the flesh." That was apparently funny - he let out a laugh. Heather scooted herself across the floor, back towards the side table, and reached up, flicking on the lamp. The room was bathed in light, and she squinted her eyes against the sudden brightness, turning her face away.

She couldn't deny what she'd seen, though. Vincent was sitting at the foot of the bed, calm as can be, completely unharmed. He looked over Heather carefully.

She slowly lowered the knife, folding it back up, feeling suddenly very foolish.

Had she done this? Was she really awake? Had she brought Vincent into the living world, literally _back from the dead_ , without even meaning to? For some reason, that was terrifying to Heather. She had great power, but this was the second time it had acted without her even trying. Did Alessa's powers have a mind of their own?

She remembered in grade school, the kids would taunt her and carve horrible things into her desk - there was one girl in particular who made Alessa's school life hell. One day, Alessa had wished her dead - passingly, not even imagining any scenario or putting much force into the wish. Hours later at recess, the girl suddenly fell over, convulsing, choking on her own spit. An ambulance had been called, but she had died later that day.

It had scared Alessa then, just like it was scaring Heather now.

"How are you--" But she remembered Lisa, and how Lisa couldn't face her own death, and she quickly shut her mouth. She didn't know how much Vincent knew, but... she couldn't risk losing him.

Instead, she chose this moment to realize she was only in her underwear, and she quickly grabbed the forgotten towel from her shower hours earlier, trying to cover herself up. Vincent laughed again, looking smug, swinging his legs to the side of the bed and coming to a stand, beginning to pace around her.

"Don't mind me," he said. "Really."

She fumed, quickly getting to her feet, wrapping the towel around her. "I--" She wasn't sure what to say. What was on okay topic? She swallowed, carefully. "I didn't expect..."

"I can tell." He stopped in front of her, crossing arms over his chest. "But here I am."

"Here you are," she whispered.

"So this is Portland, huh?" Vincent surveyed the hotel room, then turned towards the window, peeking from the curtain. "I think I prefer the small town life."

She scoffed, turning towards her bag, digging for clothes. "That's surprising." She pulled out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, quickly pulling them on. "Aren't there more people to scam in a big city?"

"Maybe so," Vincent said, idly, gaze still turned out the window, to the streets beyond. "But it's harder to get people to trust you. There's not that...personal, down-home touch."

Just then, there was a knock at the door. Heather sucked in a breath, suddenly, quickly grabbing Vincent's arm and pulling him towards the bathroom. "Wait in here," she said. The only person who would be coming to see her would be Douglas or a police officer.

Vincent quirked an eyebrow. "I'm starting to feel like the secret boyfriend."

"Shush." Heather shut the bathroom door, quickly turning towards the door to the room, taking in a deep breath. She was starting to feel like she was in some sort of sitcom. Where was the inappropriately-timed laugh track and cheesy background music? Would she even bat an eye at those things at this point?

Trying to put on a neutral expression, Heather opened the door.

Douglas was standing there, looking worn, holding a big paper bag.

"Hey." He shifted uncomfortably. "I wasn't sure if you'd be awake."

"I just woke up," Heather said, smiling. She eyed the bag. "Something for me?"

"Oh--" Douglas paused, then reached inside the bag. "Yeah. I uh, I picked up some food. Thought you might be hungry. It's nothing much, but..." He trailed off. "I hope you like Chinese."

Heather's stomach was torn between a hungry rumble and a nauseous lurch at the sudden wafting smell of food. But she did like Chinese, and it had been way too long since she'd eaten any food. She took the cartons gratefully, along with proffered chopsticks. "Thank you," she said.

"Yeah. It's fine. I was heading out anyway, and I wasn't sure if you'd want to go out to get food... so I thought I would..." He trailed off, awkwardly. "I heard from the detective. They said they should be done with the scene by tomorrow. I, ah... took the liberty of calling a crime scene cleaner. They can get the blood out of the carpet, but the chair..." He trailed off. "Ah, anyway, you might want to talk to them yourself." He dug into his pocket, pulling out a business card. She took it slowly - she suddenly felt like the world was buzzing in her ears, her vision shaking and betraying her. Her legs didn't feel stable. She didn't like this at all.

"Thanks." She wasn't mad at Douglas - he was trying to help, and he was mostly succeeding. These things had to be taken care of. She just...couldn't take care of them.

"Eat and get some more rest," Douglas said. "There's no telling if the detectives will want to talk to you again tomorrow."

"Yeah," she said, faintly. "Night." She nudged the door shut with her foot, turning and slumping against it, setting the hot boxes down at the worn-down desk by the door. After a moment, the bathroom door cracked open and Vincent peeked out. On realizing the room was empty save for Heather and himself, he waltzed out, towards Heather, noting the food with an appreciative nod before turning his gaze towards her.

"Something's wrong." It wasn't a question. Heather nodded slowly.

"It's just my dad," she said, quietly. "It's, uh, it's fine." She shook her head, then quickly grabbed one of the Chinese cartons, popping it open and peeking inside. Sesame Chicken. She reached for the chopsticks and slumped into the chair at the desk, starting to pick at the food, forcing herself to shove a piece into her mouth before she could think too hard about it. The food was good enough, and at the taste of it, she could tell she was excruciatingly hungry. She needed to eat. She hadn't in days.

Somehow, Heather wasn't surprised when Vincent didn't pick up a carton and join her. Instead, he seated himself on the edge of the bed, bent forward, resting elbows on knees, eyes on her.

"So, what now?" he asked.

Heather stopped mid-chew, glancing towards him. "I don't know," she said. "I guess we just wait for now."

After eating, Heather sat on the bed and idly flipped through TV channels - a couple of movies she didn't recognize already half-way in, a cooking show, a few channels in Spanish, old reruns of some comedy show in black and white, and finally, a few news programs.

She watched nervously, waiting for somebody to report on the murder of her father, but nobody did. Once it got to the Sports section of the news, Heather quickly shut it off.

"You should sleep," Vincent said. "You're tired. Aren't you?"

She kind of was. Her dreams earlier had been so intense that it almost felt like she hadn't gotten any rest at all. She looked over at him, surveying him carefully. "What about you?" she asked.

He shrugged, trying to feign disinterest. "I think the bed's big enough for both of us."

Heather wasn't sure how to feel about that - or maybe about any of this. Vincent understood her, better than anybody ever would, probably. But he hadn't exactly been a light of unwavering support, either. Every time she'd come across him in that town, he'd left her feeling uneasy - he'd even been in the office building next to her apartment, come to think of it, and Heather couldn't figure out _why_. Maybe he'd followed Claudia to see what she was up to? The whole thing made her head ache.

But at the same time, his presence was _comforting_ , too. She was having a hard time reconciling the two competing emotions. Didn't she deserve some comfort, after everything she'd been through? Vincent wouldn't harm her. Heather didn't have "God" inside of her, anymore, and Vincent even said he didn't _want_ God to be born. Even if he tried, for some reason, Heather was pretty sure she could defend herself. There was no telling what she could do without trying to, now that she was in-touch with Alessa's power.

She tried not to let that creep her out too much.

"Okay," she said, finally. She couldn't deny that she could use the rest.

Heather slid off her jeans, dropping them on the floor next to the bed. Vincent set about unbuttoning his vest and shirt, and Heather flushed, quickly flipping on her side away from him and settling down with her head against the pillow. She moved to turn off the side table lamp, and the room was dark again. Heather could hear cars on the road beyond the motel, and people milling around in the parking lot. She closed her eyes. Within moments, Vincent had settled beside her, his back to her, and it... felt nice. It didn't exactly remind Heather of the times with her father when she was much younger, curling up in his bed after a nightmare or during a loud storm. In a way, that was a good thing - Vincent's comfort was something different, all his own, and Heather couldn't help but like it.

She slept peacefully, without having any dreams.

\----------

The next morning, Heather awoke to the sound of the phone. She jolted awake, sitting up in bed, before realizing what it was, reaching for it, pressing the receiver to her ear.

"Hello?" she asked, her voice embarrassingly telling that she'd just woken up.

"Heather Mason?" the voice asked. It was a man's voice, but not one she was familiar with. She paused for a moment, unsure how to respond. Years of her father's strict guidelines had made her wary of this kind of situation.

"...Yes?" she said, slowly.

"This is Detective Bronson from the Portland police department."

Heather let out a quiet sigh of relief. Now that he'd introduced himself, she thought she did recognize his voice a little bit as the man from yesterday - he had a slight New York accent, enough to give himself away. "Oh. Sorry, I was sleeping. Did you... have any news?"

"Only that we've finished analying the scene-- ah, the apartment, and you're free to return. We'll be in touch during the course of the investigation."

"Oh. Right. Uh, thanks." She hesitated a moment, unsure what to say. "I guess I should pack up then. Bye."

She hung up before he could try to offer any more condolences. She really didn't want to hear that.

Vincent had stirred beside her - at some point in the night, he'd flipped onto his other side, and Heather realized the warm weight around her stomach had been his arm. She flushed, her face heating.

She pulled away from his grasp, quickly grabbing the jeans she'd discarded the night before and pulling them on. Vincent followed suit, and within minutes, his clothes were back in place, if only slightly rumpled.

"We're going back home," Heather said, going to her bag, making sure everything was in place and zipping it up. "My home," she clarified, after a second. "You're... coming with me, right?"

Vincent laughed. "Of course. It's not like I have anywhere _else_ to go."

"You said you prefered the small town life," she reminded him, swinging the bag over her shoulder.

"What, you think I'll go back to Silent Hill?" he looked thougtful for a moment. Heather _didn't_ actually think that - not really. She didn't know how far Vincent could really get. Was there a range limitation? She didn't really know. Alessa had used this power, but she hadn't been able to have Lisa exist in a "real" world, not like this. Heather didn't know what to expect. "No," Vincent said, slowly. "For some reason, I feel like I'm not supposed to leave you alone." He grinned a little. "Lucky you, huh?"

"Lucky me," she repeated, frowning.

Heather checked out and paid for the room, and she and Vincent made it across the street and down two blocks to the subway station. The underground was thankfully buzzing with people, and the train ride to Bergen Street was uneventful, despite Heather's pounding heart and sweaty palms.

When they got to the apartment building, Douglas was standing outside, talking to a man dressed all in black. Heather hadn't expected to see him there. When he turned and saw her, he quirked a brow, his eyes coming to rest on Vincent.

"Hi," Heather said, slowly.

"Detective Bronson told me he'd already called you," Douglas said, still eyeing Vincent carefully. "I figured I'd meet you over here, since you were already gone. The cleaners took care of everything. They just want to know if you want them to take the chair."

Heather's stomach did a backflip, but she turned her eyes to the man in black, figuring he was the one cleaning up. "Yeah," she said, her mouth suddenly dry. "That's... fine. Thanks."

The man nodded, moving back into the building. Heather didn't see a truck or van parked out front, so she hoped he was going to take it out the back. She wouldn't have to see it that way.

"Isn't this that Vincent guy?" Douglas asked, bringing Heather back to the situation at hand. "From--"

"Nice to see you again," Vincent said, cutting him off, offering a hand. Douglas frowned, but took it anyway in a shake.

"Vincent showed up last night," Heather said, quickly. "He wanted to check up on me, I guess."

"...Right." Douglas sighed, brushing a hand through his hair. He then reached into his coat pocket, retrieving his wallet, opening it and handing Heather a small white card. "This is my card. Call me if you need anything. Okay?"

"Yeah." Heather took the card, glancing it over, and smiled. "Thanks, Douglas."

He stood there a moment, awkwardly, before clapping a hand over her shoulder, squeezing, then nodding his head, turning towards his truck and getting inside. Heather stood on the sidewalk, watching as he pulled away.

When she moved into the apartment building, the halls were empty. Her front door was closed, and nobody was hanging around. Heather unlocked the door and let herself in, and Vincent followed, peering this way and that, interested.

"To think the 'Mother of God' everyone was looking for was hiding out here all this time," he said, casually, closing the door behind him. Heather frowned, setting her bag on the floor by the small table with the phone. A small light was flashing on the phone - she had messages - but she didn't care to listen to any of them right now.

"Don't," she said, seriously. She dug the two leftover cartons of Chinese out of her bag and moved to pop them in the fridge. They'd been left out overnight, but they were probably still okay... "I didn't really feel like I was hiding. I went to school. I had a life."

"If you say so." Vincent stepped into the living room, looking around.

Heather gave him a "grand tour", which didn't consist of much. The question of "what now" that Vincent had asked her the night before was ringing in her head. She didn't even know what day of the week it was or anything. She moved into the living room, turning the TV on.

"--and here's Jim Adkins with your five day forecast. Jim?"

"Thank you, Sheila," the weatherman said. He was standing in front of a moving digital image, showing various colors swirling over a map of Maine. "We're beginning Wednesday morning with some cloud cover coming in from the north. The nasty storm that hit Canada is moving in for us, but it's losing a bit of steam as it comes. By Thursday we should see scattered showers and thunderstorms--"

Wednesday. It was Wednesday. It had been Saturday when Heather had gone to the mall, and now it was Wednesday.

She should be in school, she realized. Classes had started an hour ago. The thought of going made her knees weak. She wasn't ready for that. No way. There were two weeks of classes left. Did she really have to go back?

Heather moved to sit at the kitchen table, slumping forward, head resting against the cool wood.

When she suddenly felt Vincent's hand on her shoulder, she almost jumped.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said. After a moment, she murmured, "No. Not really."

He hummed thoughtfully, coming to sit in the chair beside her.

"Did you know your parents?" she asked, glancing up towards him.

"No," he said, shrugging. "I grew up in the Hope House. Y'know, the orphanage outside Silent Hill?"

Heather picked up her head just enough to look at him and wrinkled her nose, remembering an article she'd come across about the place. She hadn't read it word-for-word, but it didn't sound so great. Vincent noticed her expression and laughed a little.

"Heard of it? Yeah, I guess you wouldn't like it. It's like a factory to create members of the church. They didn't expect a little kid would be able to see they were using it to manipulate us and realize what a great tool it was to do the same to other people. Guess you could say I learned a lot there."

Heather frowned. "So you don't believe in it?"

"It's not as simple as that." Vincent looked her over carefully. He actually looked pretty serious for once. "How could I not believe it, after all we saw?"

Heather's expression twisted. "But we didn't see what that crap teaches," she argued. "Paradise, salvation... all I saw was death and destruction."

Vincent nodded, eyebrows quirked. "True enough. But your experience was different than anyone else's. Saviors have to go through suffering, after all. Like Jesus on the cross. People want to worship martyrs."

Heather slumped her head back on the table, shoulders stiff. "Good for them."

" _Anyway_ ," he said, pointedly, "I still have faith in Her. But I'm not like Claudia. We disagreed on nearly everything."

That seemed true, from what Heather had seen. The admission that Vincent saw her as the Mother of God, truly, was a little unsettling, but Heather supposed in some way it was true. She couldn't really deny that she'd "mothered" _something_ , but...she didn't really want to think about it, either.

She tried to bury the thoughts in the back of her head. With so much to think about, it shouldn't have been too hard.

"I don't know what it's like to lose someone," he confessed, "but I can tell it's painful for you. You can talk to me if you need to. I'm good at listening. Part of the job and all."

"I'll keep that in mind."

The day dragged on into night. Heather heated up the Chinese food at one point and munched on it with boredom, still not feeling too happy with her appetite. At one point, Vincent found Harry's bookshelf and started to peruse it, picking out one of the books he'd written and cracking it open, reading with interest. As the sky darkened, Heather heard the soft patters of rain and low rumble of thunder, a little earlier than the meterologist on TV had predicted. The memory of curling in her dad's bed as a young girl, scared of the storms outside, filled her head again, and she felt her skin flush and her eyes water.

She wasn't going to cry in front of Vincent. She got up from the table, moving into her room, shutting herself up in the bathroom. Heather turned the shower on, not bothering to check the temperature of the spray before stripping her clothes off and stepping in.

This was life. It was really happening. She'd lost her father, forever, and she had to learn how to deal with that. He was gone, and Douglas had been right - revenge hadn't solved anything. Heather had known it wasn't going to make her feel any better, but at the same time, it was something she couldn't have not done. Not just for dad, but for her, too. Claudia had to be stopped, and Heather was the one who had to do it.

The thought didn't make her feel any better at all.

She didn't get out of the shower until the water ran cold. Heather turned off the spray and grabbed for a towel, drying herself off, running it through her hair. She felt like she was moving without really being a part of it, like her body was running itself and she was sitting in the passenger's seat.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around her body, Vincent was sitting at her desk, book in hand, peering at her from over its edge.

She jumped, surprised, not having expected him.

"Hiya," he said, folding the book and setting it down. "Sorry for intruding."

He didn't really sound sorry at all, but Heather let it go. She quickly moved to her dresser, yanking it open and beginning to rummage for clothes. Within minutes, she'd grabbed some pajamas, and stepped back into the bathroom to get changed, kicking the door shut behind her. Vincent had said before he didn't feel like he was supposed to leave her alone... but she hadn't expected he would be this clingy. It didn't seem like it was a part of him - maybe whatever was keeping him in "this world" was affecting him.

It was kind of unsettling.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Heather moved to her bed, sitting on the edge.

"How long are you going to stay?" she asked him, flatly. He blinked, obviously surprised by the question.

"As long as you'll have me," he answered. "It looks like you're my only parishioner, now."

She gave a short laugh - half-genuine, and then stopped herself, surprised.

"You smiled." Vincent looked pleased, smiling back himself. "So you _can_ do that."

"Of course I can," she said, crossing her arms in mock-annoyance. "You just need to be funnier. And more charming."

"You wound me." Vincent laid a hand over his heart, playing right along. "I'll have you know, I'm plenty charming."

"I'm not convinced."

He grinned, rising from his chair. "Then I'll have to work on that." He took one step towards her, then another, before leaning down, coming eye-level with her. Without a moment of hesitation, he leaned forward, pressing lips to hers. Heather almost squeaked in surprised but managed to keep that in, her hands going to grip the edges of the bed, fingers digging in. It took her only a moment, but she pressed back, hard, finally starting to feel that horror that had carved a seat in her chest being shoved out, losing its spot, her heart pounding it out. She could make room for something else there, now. She wanted to, more than anything.

Vincent pulled back, the kiss naturally coming to an end. Heather's face itched where his stubble had scratched against her skin, but she hardly noticed - her head was spinning, her heart racing.

"Charming enough for you?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, and reached over, shutting off the lamp. "I'm going to have to see more than that to be able to pass judgment."

That night, Heather curled against the wall, not minding Vincent's arms around her. The storm raged outside, rain pounding against the window, but she wasn't afraid.

Maybe this could work. Maybe she could make it. It was going to be hard, and the road would be long, but she had to press on.

Maybe "Morning always comes" wasn't so cheesy after all.

Closing her eyes, Heather tuned her breathing to Vincent's and dozed peacefully to sleep.


End file.
